the morning after

Yesterday is a blur. I remember waking up to a light cover of snow outside. Good. We need a clean layer.





The old stuff reminded me of how snow is pretty and soil is pretty, but put them together and you have something significantly unattractive.


Then the cooking began. Ed disappeared, claiming that his cats needed him. I forgave him. Every day is Valentine’s Day.

This was supper for my old neighborhood friends. In my last year of suburb life, I’d cook pots of soup and we’d take our huge mugs straight to the TV, where we would eat, drink and listen to the political debates leading to the elections. Now, in my condo, I decided to cook soup again. Roasted tomato, onion, crimini mushrooms and corn. And garlic. In large amounts.





For the plate accompanying the soup, I made baked polenta with mushrooms and gruyere…





crostini with fresh mozzarella and grilled veggies…





White bean and garlic spread on bread…





Buckwheat crepes with smoked salmon…





…and pear and roquefort strudel.





Oh, and some dessert stuff that escaped without a photo.

The funnest dish was also the simplest: toasted coconut slivers with salt.





That was the eating part. More important was talking. Usually over each other and with gusto. (We have never been known for being quiet.) So that even Ed, whom you would not call a party animal, stayed up for most of the evening.





Oh, but wait: the post title is “the morning after.” All I can say is that even slow sipping of wine over a six-plus hour period is going to result in a lot of sipped wine. Either that, or I’m rapidly losing my hard Polish head. Or something. Sunday, therefore, was a slow day. My most significant activity? I went out to study possum tracks in the fresh snow around my writer’s shed.

back in the saddle

2008 was memorable in many ways and one stands out for me at the moment: I did not cook for anyone the entire year. (Except for myself, my family and Ed.)

I could toss around many reasons for this, but they’re unimportant. Today, I’m back in the cooking saddle.

That means dinner should be near ready.

That means posting about its not quite readiness will have to wait until tomorrow.

voluptuous pears

Maybe it’s the elevator -- I just heard these words on a library-borrowed DVD (Boston Legal) and I thought: how oddly insightful!

Because elevators are a quick rush in an enclosed and private space…

Because elevators are safe in a way that few other moving objects are…

Because elevators are the only spaces within which you can do absolutely nothing else but wait…

…but you have the illusion of privacy, so that you could behave atrociously and no one would be the wiser.


You know, it was a very busy day. Can I leave you with a valentine wish? Yes? Okay. In the words of Ed, everyday is Valentine’s Day.

It's all in how you regard things. Take a bowl of pears. So simple. So... voluptuous.

from both sides

Life is complicated. I said as much to a colleague who then remarked: things evolve.

It struck me that for some, things evolve, and for others, things resolve. I have a history of siding with revolution rather than evolution (But, happy birthday dear Darwin anyway…). It comes from an impatient predisposition.

But the comment – things evolve – gave me pause. Maybe it’s time to consider this different approach.

In the meantime, I want to put up two photos – one taken at midday, over an espresso break at the Lake Street café, and the other – in the evening, as the sun was almost down. Both are of Lake Monona. Same lake, one in a gray moment, one, patiently delivered, at a later time.



Lake Monona: at noon





Lake Monona: later

compromise

You think you know what it means. You (like me, like everyone) undoubtedly believe that in your life, you have made many. You, the giver, the one who asks for less than her (his) fair share.

But it’s not true. In establishing a world order within our brain, we already prioritize ourselves. And we are forever bargaining for a better deal. Cheaper, nicer, easier, calmer, sweeter -- pick your preferences!

(Or bargaining for our preferred political platform, but I’m shying away from political metaphors today, even as compromise on the Hill was a big news item of this day.)

This is how it usually plays: you ask me for something big. Something that would put me out of my element. I say no and then I go on to mention how much I am already doing for you. But that’s not compromise. That’s me painting a noble portrait of my wonderfulness at the same time that I am telling you a flat no.

At this juncture, let me pause to show off the imminent departure of winter: wet bark against a gently hued sky.





Good enough! Aren’t I easy to please?

Hogwash (a gentler form of bullshit). I’m not easy to please at all. I have my weather priorities and nothing will budge me from them and I would feel put upon if someone tried to convince me to live in even colder climates.



I made a small stop at La Baguette again. I said bonne journee because the owners are French and actually don’t mind humoring the customer who wants to feel like she is miles away from work and home. I picked up a warm baguette, took my picture and for a moment felt satisfied. Who needs Paris. I have Paris here. It says so on the wall!





No, not really. Ocean readers would not be surprised to hear me say that I have an insatiable itch to wake up elsewhere, preferably in a place that has good coffee and warm-from-the-oven breads. For this, I would, well, make a hundred compromises. And admire my own willingness to barter away my life, my future, my security – just for that morning moment over coffee.

But is this really a compromise? No, it’s me indulging my own vision of what is heavenly and meaningful. Isn’t a compromise when you let go a significant chunk of your own euphoria and look for opportunities to indulge someone else’s vision of what is heavenly and meaningful?

[Thoughts from an early morning conversation with Ed on this very topic.]

rescue

A day of extremes. The warmest February 10th ever. 54 degrees. (Don’t laugh, southerners!)





I wore short sleeves to class. Fantastic!

Less fantastic were the minutes I spent on the Net between classes. I track the discussions on the economic stimulus package and the rescue plans with some interest. Before law, before sociology, I was a committed, if not enthusiastic economist. And now I am reeling back into that world (especially since I studied economics in the Poland of early seventies, where we were taught that with time, the free market “capitalist” system would destroy itself due to greed; hmm…).

Enough. I leave my office at midday, for just a minute of that fresh, springlike air.





The lake surely remains frozen, but the ice appears wobbly. Indeed, two ice fishermen look like they lost something (someone?) to the Lake Mendota waters. Another man rushes over.





But, from what I can tell, it’s nothing. Not a rescue at all. A rush without a rescue.

In the meantime, the students stroll, seemingly shedding clothes with each degree that is added to the day.





And in the evening, the Sussex Spaniel wins the Westminster. A dog that was rescued from near death, the oldest dog to ever win the Show.

What a day! A shame that tomorrow, we return to winter.

grave thoughts

Tiny ants inhabit my Cymbidium King Arthur “Round Table.” In the late afternoon, when the sun is out, they climb out of the tangled roots to explore, or sunbathe, or something. Mostly, they make their way back to the base by sunset, but I have found one or two meandering toward other parts of the room. For the most part, they do not get very far.

It’s easy to understand why these ants live here: orchids have to experience cold temperatures to produce buds and so my pots spent the fall season outdoors. There you have it: they spend a sizable amount of time in the company of bugs.

I called the orchid store and confirmed what I already suspected: the ants are relatively harmless to the plant. And so now comes the guilt. Whereas before, I would proceed defiantly with an afternoon ant hunt (between life of plant and life of the little belligerent invader, I chose life of plant), now I understand that ant squashing expeditions protect not life at all, but some sanitary standard I have borrowed from people who would regard indoor plant ants as evil.

Still, if you must know, I have terrible associations with the whole idea of indoor plant bugs. As a kid, I went to a birthday party of one of my Polish classmates. It was a fairly unstructured event and eventually, a number of the more restless kids found pleasure in picking bugs out of a plant on the windowsill and placing them in the shirt of Fella Fastman. I was living in the States then and visiting only briefly and so I did not understand the social dynamics at play. I have always wondered if Fella was picked on because she was one of the few Jewish girls in the class. Anti-Semitism was not discussed, not then anyway (the early 60s), but no one could deny that it festered and cruelly made its presence known.

Fella was stoic through it all. The party girl’s mother eventually was called in and she quickly organized a game of heads or tails. We flipped a Polish coin and guessed the outcome for a good many minutes and then went home.



Ed has suggested more than once that I should leave the ants alone. Sure, but Ed coexists with all sorts of life in his sheep shed. Life that I would have expelled a long time ago. Indeed, when I visit his shed, I chase said life outside when he isn’t looking. (I leave the cats alone: they have squatters rights.) It seems to me that if you invite life to your warm space on a Wisconsin winter day, word will spread and soon you wont find a quiet corner to yourself. Already a possum has been studying the cat door of his shed, learning in his slow way how the cats get in. (His permanent residence is under my unfinished writer’s shed.)

On summer days, I have sometimes felt saddened that a random footstep of mine stamps out life on a pavement or on a dirt path. At least the crushing force can be regarded as careless or accidental. Here, I am deliberately squashing meandering ants. The whole idea repels me.

But so do bugs inside the condo.

Sigh… spring can’t come fast enough. (Plants with ants will be invited to spend the season on my balcony again.)

ice bricks

Navigating the day. It’s a bright one, though not as warm as yesterday. Fill up with b&b food (oh, the guilt!) and head out toward Lake Michigan.





Port Washington looks good from above. At least from this bluff. Views are truly wonderful if you selectively focus away from parts that are indifferent. For example, I don’t know why Part Washington puts its sewage plant by the waterfront, but it does. You will not see it here. I’m concentrating on the other vistas: lighthouses against a glittering body of near frozen water.






We drive to Harrington Beach State Park (on the coast of Lake Michigan, further north).

Cedar swamps, frozen, with few trespassers now, in the midst of winter.

Except deer. We see the tracks…




…and then, fleetingly, the deer.






We lose our way because deer tracks look very much like people tracks, except for the shape of the print.

Eventually we are on firm, if soggy ground. We follow the path to Lake Michigan.





…where the water is crashing against ice boulders and it all seems terribly unsafe.





…but not for Ed, who takes this opportunity to demonstrate to me that death is not as easy to stumble into as you may think. Which most certainly is a good thing.

Can we walk back to the car along the quiet nature trail? – I ask. We do that. We're both feeling agreeable. It's the weather, I tell you. All can be ignored, all can be forgiven.

The waves crash into the fissures and then retreat.





We are safe. Life is brilliant, all the dramatic twists not withstanding.

the call of the tame

Port Washington (Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Michigan) registered a record breaking 53 this February afternoon.

Ed and I were not in Port Washington at the moment when it hit 53, but we are here now and there are wisps of warmth as I write this. Truthfully, the warmth comes from a good heating system at the Port Washington Inn, and I have to admit that I had a very cold moment on the Port Washington seawall that juts out into Lake Michigan this evening, but still, earlier in the day, in all corners of Wisconsin, it was warm. Relatively speaking.

I saw it coming, We all did, here in our northern state. And Ed, who typically stays away from any mention of b&bs (too comfortable, too boring, etc) did a complete about face by suggesting that we get away to one this week-end. To fight cabin fever. (I am certain that he himself has never experienced cabin fever, as he loves his lair more than life itself, but still, it is generous of him to acknowledge the possibility of this in others.)

You could say we went Wisconsin wild today (in a tame sort of way). A hike. Of course. We start with that. Closer to Milwaukee, at the Lapham Peak State Park.
















The “heat wave” melted enough snow to make you think of spring, which is a good thing, but it also created streams of water at the lower elevations, which is perhaps less optimal.






Eventually, we leave the park and head due north. Past lakes where fishing families know that in this state, a February thaw is a very superficial thing.






Ed is casting about for his old map of local producers of foods and stuff (the “stuff” is mostly beer). He suggests a detour to a cheese maker. It is, really, a random pick. Proximate, sure, sort of. Well no, truthfully --not even that. Beechwood Cheese. It's in the middle of nowhere.

I call to see if they're open. Today? Sure. It’s the first Saturday of the month: that's cheese curd day. So you’re selling cheese curds? We’re driving in from Madison. Madison? That’s far! I'll save you some in case we run out. It sure would be a shame to drive all this way for nothing.

That should have alerted us, right there. All this way.









Truly, a remote place. And why should it be otherwise? Cheeses aren’t made far from places where cows grow and prosper.

The sellers are local women. They've seen new owners come and go. And still, the curds remain a village favorite. Good thing we saved you some! The plain ones sold out long time ago.




We take packs of plain and jalapeno spiced curds with us. Are cheese curds low fat? I ask Ed. I mean, what do I know. I was raised on Polish farmers cheese. Very white. Very bland. Good with honey on top. Nope – he answers. An unfortunate piece of information, given that we have been hiking and now it's just the curds and us, in the car, zipping along past long stretches of farmland.


Fortified, we arrive in Port Washington.

Our inn is quintessentially wonderful.




Who could find fault with a place that asks you in advance whether you want white or red (wine) on arrival?

But I’m in a hurry. We throw our bags down and head back out. The sun is almost down. Dusk. We make our way toward Lake Michigan (just a few blocks down the hill). The wind is picking up now. Was this day once warm?





The sea wall is covered with ice. You slip, you fall, you don’t sink – you freeze. Still, it’s beautiful now on this winter evening. Ice, water, moon.





...and Port Washington.





We stop at a place right by the water to get supper (“dinner” is somehow less fitting for evening meals here; maybe it has something to do with the quantities of butter served). I note the special is trout. Is it local? -- I ask. I don’t know. The supplier delivers and our cooks cook it. I imagine it’s from somewhere in the Midwest.





It is, in fact, quite good.

As we get ready to leave, the room breaks into a chorus: happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Will... A local boy, celebrating his thirteenth (or thereabouts). On this, the warmest February 7th in Port Washington. So we are reminded by the man on the TV screen above the dining room. It's good to keep informed while you're digesting trout and fries.

rushing the season

Well, a commenter last week predicted it right: we hit 40 in Madison and, consequently, the kids put on the shorts. You think I exaggerate? Outside my office window today, I see this:





I have to admit though: to the average bloke like me, forty is acceptable. You can walk and think if it’s forty outside. Your thoughts will not be disturbed.


And so I walked. All the way from the Law School, along Observatory Drive…





… down to the lake path, not very bike friendly now, but still, lovely and rather warm(ish). The hearty types (the ducks) were dipping in and out of water pools like crazy. The blackbirds? Not so much. Cowards, like me.





On I walked, all the way home.

I look forward to when these toasty days (it's all relative after all) become the norm. Just a few more months. How satisfying to see winter losing its grip!

your days

Nearing now the end of the week. Almost there. Almost. And now, here we are. Friday. Idle time? No no. For me, this is the time that's dangerously loaded with possibilities. Hours to fill by me. And eventually, at the end of the week-end, I’ll have to face up to my own judgment of it: did I apply myself? Did I use the time well? No? Darn it.

Free time is serious stuff.

If I explained all this to Ed, I’m sure he would not immediately grasp what I was getting at. You judge one day over another? What for?


Tonight, I coax him to watch Atonement with me. Not because I think he’ll like it (I’m guessing he wont) (I am right: he doesn’t), but because I think it's sort of humbling: the story is so full of pathos that it makes you rather grateful for your lot, however messed it may be. And, if you remember the plot, you’ll remember that it is about a love and life that could not be. Ed! Look how quickly it can all be taken from you! (Indeed! Such a Polish way of looking at things!)

Ed shrugs. To feel sad because you’re watching a fictionalized account of a life gone haywire – that is somewhere between ridiculous and funny.


The end of the week. The movie is done with and the week-end is almost here. Days with time. Days not ruined by bitter cold (nor, typically, by apocalyptic events). Days that you may construct as you see fit.


Ah, life... It's so much easier if you can just bitch about work and weather.

so…

Everything is interrelated. For example, what happened on Wall Street affected the way students pay for their college tuition and this completely shaped my afternoon (I hear appeals of nonresident determinations at my university). Earlier, I chatted with a doctoral student from Poland who gave me an update on the effect of the economic downturn (what a gentle understatement!) on our home country. My soon to be purchased laptop (Toshiba: the brand you buy when money counts) may have components from Poland. I’m wondering if one of my Polish nephews will stay in England (where he now works) or whether he’ll join the returning cadre of Polish workers from Britain, now that the economic climate is more hospitable in the poorer home country. And whether this, in turn, will affect my sister’s long term plans (she is now in Sweden). And therefore my own. (Where should I look for any of them during the year ahead?)

Anyway, I cannot even begin to tell you how it became very clear to me today that everything is interrelated.

Photo? Well, not much. I went down the hill for an espresso and I saw our red gym (now a campus information center) against a blue sky, with a student in a red UW cap passing in front. So I snapped.

cold blast

Very cold. None of this rhapsodizing about winter in Wisconsin. So cold you can’t uncover your head. Or any part of you. (At least they're color coordinated.)





And yet, after my morning class, I walk down the hill for an espresso. And I feel prickly good about it. And the cup of coffee stays hot, okay warm, all the way back to my office.

Still, it is very very cold.


Though, waiting on the bus stop, at the end of the day, I can’t help but notice the biker. He is actually biking along in that lane reserved for cyclists. Not unusual? Well, pretty unusual, given the temps. And a challenge for the buses: pushed out by snow banks, they have to share the bike lane. And slow down because of our brave man pedaling home.





So did I mention it's cold? Cold enough that I mind (a little) that I've taken the express bus. I have to backtrack to my condo (the bus doesn't stop at my usual stop).

But, the late sun throws a copper glow onto my condo and really, I can imagine it being spring soon, what with all that sun and the potential that it offers.

Madison coffee break

Five minutes and I’m no longer behind my computer screen, I am here. Five minutes!





And twenty-five minutes later, I am back behind the computer. Well, with a brief detour for a coffee and a baguette.





Madison, however little it offers in terms of warmth (during winter), offers fantastically easy access to a breath of fresh air, just when you need it most. Early in the day, in the middle of the night, before sunrise, at dusk. Or at noon.





Now all you people in warmer weather places – aren’t you just a tiny bit jealous?





That’s okay. We’re getting an Arctic blast again tomorrow. All this outdoor reverence will go away soon enough.